


Survival Skills

by madsthenerdygirl



Category: The Mummy (1999)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 15:29:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6382018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madsthenerdygirl/pseuds/madsthenerdygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick O'Connell is a man of many talents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Survival Skills

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted on fanfiction.net in 2014 and is now being crossposted here along with the rest of my work.

Evelyn O'Connell (formerly Carnahan) had been married to her husband for a month before she learned about his hidden talent.

Oh, sure, she knew he was surprisingly educated, with an extensive knowledge of history and culture that he was embarrassed about and blushed at when she praised him. He was intelligent, picking up things quickly (even though hieroglyphs continued to confuse him) and thinking on his feet. No one could dispute his bravery, and although he wasn't romantic in the sense of flowers and love letters, he was undoubtedly devoted.

What she had failed to figure out was that Rick also had quite the talent for languages.

She had noticed that he was able to understand Arabic, and she'd known that he was in the French Foreign Legion (a long story that had come out when he'd had to explain to her why he wasn't ever allowed back in France), but for some reason none of those details had ever added up in her head.

But then they'd gone on their side trip to Morocco to take a look at some recently unearthed ruins, and she'd had the pleasure of watching Rick deftly handle two arguing archeologists and an African supervisor for the hired diggers while switching between three different languages. She'd watched the words curl over his tongue, his mouth shaping the vowels with ease, and had a swift image of him whispering those same words (whatever they meant) in her ear, his voice becoming low and dark the way it did when he was speaking only to her. Heat had wormed its way inside of her, coiling deep inside of her gut, and she'd had to quickly distract herself before her thoughts got completely out of hand.

Which brought her to that evening. They were in the hotel room and the sun had long since set, lamps lighting up the spacious room. She was already in her nightgown, a gorgeous, flimsy thing of dark blue. Rick had bought it for her last week, and she never tired of the pleased, possessive look in his eyes when he saw her wearing it. Her husband was still dressed, albeit down to his pants and untucked shirt.

"Why didn't you tell me you spoke French? And Arabic?" She demanded.

Rick paused in the act of putting his guns under the hotel pillows, a nightly ritual that had saved their lives more than once. "I didn't think it was worth mentioning. You can read Coptic and hieroglyphs and Latin and God knows what else."

"Yes, but you speak it like a native," she insisted, clambering onto the bed. "How many languages do you speak?"

His face turned thoughtful, and he shrugged. "I don't know. Six?"

"Six?" She could hardly believe her ears.

Rick held up his fingers and counted off. "English, obviously. French, German, and Italian because of the war. Arabic and Greek because that's where the campaigns took me before the whole Hamunaptra debacle. I know a handful of phrases in Spanish and Russian, but it's mostly just 'how much is the food' and 'where's the bathroom' stuff. I'm best in French."

She felt herself gaping at him and closed her mouth. "How did you learn so many?"

He took a step towards her, his hand coming up to play with the strands of her hair. "It was just a survival skill. Something I did to get by. If you want food or to work, if you want people to accept you, then you have to learn their language. A people's language practically reflects their culture, after all, and if you can talk to them they're halfway to calling you a friend."

Rick had mentioned many of his 'survival skills'—things he'd picked up over the years to keep alive after his parents had died. But lock picking and smuggling and all were very different from this. For one thing, they didn't make her skin feel so hot.

"Would you…" She swallowed, feeling suddenly shy. "Would you speak them to me?"

"What?" Rick took a step closer, a grin flitting across his face. "You want me to speak languages you can't understand?"

"I don't have to understand the words to know what they mean," Evelyn argued.

"Good point." He bumped their noses together. " _Je ne pourrai jamais tu refuser quoi que ce soit._ "

His tone was lower, tender, the words like a caress about her ears. She slid her hands up his chest, deftly undoing the buttons on his shirt.

"How long have you had this idea,  _déesse_?"

"Since this morning," she admitted, letting him run his large hands over her curves. It continued to amaze her how his spread fingers could span her back, the tan skin contrasting her paleness. When he held her, it felt as though nothing could harm her. His hands were soft and strong enough to keep her safe, keep her with him.

He grinned roguishly, slowly pulling her nightgown over her head. "You got all hot and bothered thinking about this, didn't you?" He asked.

She gave him her best glare but didn't bother lying. He was annoyingly good at knowing when she was telling even a half-truth. Another one of those 'survival skills.' "I did find it rather… attractive."

He kneeled on the bed, forcing her to further back towards the headboard, stalking her softly, like a lion. He leaned over her, making her fall she shivered as his lips brushed the shell of her ear. " _Tu voulez dire qu'il vous allumé._ "

"If you're going to use this as a chance to taunt me, Mr. O'Connell-"

"You have no idea what I said!"

"I know your tone of voice."

" _Tu êtes trop intelligent pour votre propre bien,_ " he chuckled, mouthing the words against the side of her neck. She could feel the way his mouth formed the letters, skimming along her skin. She had no idea what he was saying but his tone was soft and endearing, his rough voice turning the words into something mysterious and intoxicating.

She clutched at his shoulders, pressing their bodies tighter together, urging him to continue. He hummed as he ran his lips down to her clavicle, sucking at the delicate skin. Although before their marriage he'd always been careful about where he marked her, afterwards he loved leaving marks where the whole world could see. It sent a thrill through her, and she shivered under his attentions.

His hands encompassed her sides, his thumbs stroking along her ribs, his touches light and teasing. She gave a little squeak when she felt his teeth scrape against her collarbone, feeling the laugh rumble in his throat. She tugged him upwards, searching out his mouth. He brushed his lips over hers, murmuring something in Arabic, the 'r's rolling across his tongue and sliding from his mouth to hers, until she sealed her lips over his and the rest of his sentence was poured directly into her mouth, the strange syllables catching on her tongue just as they slid off of his. He ground their hips together, the silk of her underwear catching on the rough fabric of his pants, and she gasped into his mouth. His hands refused to stop roaming over her body, massaging electric currents into her skin, making it buzz and yearn for more.

He broke away from her again, his mouth trailing downwards once more, leaving her skin tingling in his wake. " _Bella_ ," he murmured against the swell of her breasts, his tongue tracing the letters along her skin. She at least knew what that meant, and felt herself blush. Rick had always been a man of action, not words, and she had never had cause to doubt his affection but she'd never heard words spill from him so easily. Yet under the guise of her lack of understanding he became bold, pressing word after word of praise into her skin, slowly working his way downwards. His mouth shaped them so easily, molding them like tiny idols of worship, gifting them to her skin in minute offerings of devotion.

" _Tu êtes parfait,_  Evie," he whispered against her hip. " _Tellement beau, tendu pour moi comme ça._ "

She shivered, lifting her hips to encourage him. She wanted to feel those words everywhere, to be filled with them, with him, in every way possible. But Rick only skirted over her damp underwear, moving farther downwards to bestow kisses and words on the inside of her thighs. He was moving painfully slowly, leaving not a single piece of her untouched, carving more words into the soft skin until she was trembling all over, her hips bucking up into thin air.

"Rick," she whispered. The desperation in her tone made him glance up, and she saw the dark hunger in his gaze as their eyes locked. He was gentle—always so gentle—but that look of possession, of claiming, made heat rush to her gut like nothing else.

He gave in to her plea, sealing his mouth over her and sucking. Her hips bucked up instinctively, seeking more friction, to be filled. He whispered something in a dark, rumbling tone, but she couldn't make out what the words were or even the language as he slowly dragged her underwear down her legs and cast it aside. His tongue darted out, lapping at her, and she bit her lip to keep from screaming with frustration. Her entire body sank into the bed with pleasure, her limbs becoming heavy, as he slowly worked deeper and deeper into her. She could feel every flick and twist of his tongue and could only imagine the things he was branding her with, the words he was using to make her fall apart. She was so close, her skin buzzing and her vision blurring as the pleasure built up inside of her, just on the knife edge of too much, just a few more second would send her over, driving her over the-

Rick pulled away, leaving her panting and breathless and extremely annoyed. "Why on earth would you stop?" She demanded.

"Because," he teased, climbing up to peck her lips. "You know it'll be so much better in the end."

She made a noise of protest against his mouth, but he cut her off before she could actually start to speak again. She couldn't really complain anyway, because she could feel him shucking off his pants and adjusting her hips and then  _thank God_  he was slowly sliding inside of her, filling her up, and she clenched around him instinctively, wrapping her arms around him and keeping him pressed up against her. He moved slowly, rocking into her like a ship pitching over a stormy sea, his mouth continuing to form words against hers. The movements of their bodies were almost secondary to the letters curling around and over his tongue as he fed her word after word after word, pressing them desperately into her skin, whispering them into her ear until they all blurred together, crashing over her again and again and she couldn't even breathe, couldn't think, just let the words wash over her and consume her and drown her.

She felt but didn't hear herself scream, and was dimly aware of Rick stiffening and pouring himself inside of her, hot and pulsing like his words. She came to slowly, blinking until the word became focused again, smiling slowly as she saw him gazing down at her. His face was soft, his eyes dark and warm, that crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Hi," he said, gently pushing her damp hair out of her face.

"Hi," she replied, feeling her smile widen.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his voice so low that he could barely hear her. " _Ma femme._ "

She felt herself blush and kissed him, soft and sweet. He tasted like foreign languages: strange and incomprehensible, but beautiful and ringing true.

"Which is your favorite?" She asked.

He grinned. "English."

"Why?"

He bumped their noses together. "Because you can understand me when I say I love you."

She giggled. "You are such a sap."

"Only for you,  _amoureux_."

She didn't need to speak any language to know what he meant.

"Survival skills indeed," she scoffed.


End file.
